If you’re anything like me, you remember the smell of hair grease on Saturday mornings. The way it clung to your fingers, soaked into your pillowcase, and signaled it was time to sit still. You remember the sound of a hot comb heating on the stove, the hiss as it met your hairline. And the sting of a relaxer—one we sat through, teeth clenched, hoping it wouldn’t burn too badly.